Fairy Dust Read online

  ‘So . . . you mean . . . the reason Snowdrop is sick is because no one is remembering her special child any more?’ Rosie stammered.

  Queen Mae nodded. ‘That’s right. And if you help us to change that, then we might be able to save Snowdrop.’

  Rosie was still confused. ‘But how can I help when we don’t even know which child Snowdrop came from? If the doves won’t tell us, there isn’t any way of finding out, is there?’

  ‘The doves will never tell us fairies,’ Queen Mae replied, giving her an intense look. ‘But that doesn’t mean they won’t tell you.’

  Rosie stared at the fairy queen.

  Queen Mae held her gaze. ‘Now do you understand why I’m telling you all of this, Rosie? We have a bundle of joy being delivered at midday tomorrow. If you come to the forest then, you might be able to speak with the dove who brings it and find out who Snowdrop’s child was.’

  Rosie nodded slowly. Of course she would do anything she could to help Snowdrop. ‘But how will I get a bird to talk to me?’ She asked, frowning.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about that,’ Queen Mae replied. ‘Just talk and it will understand you. These aren’t ordinary doves. They live for a hundred years or more and there are only a few attached to each fairy village. The one who is coming tomorrow will remember whose child Snowdrop was. It will find a way of telling you if you ask it.’

  ‘But even if I do find out, what will I do next?’ Rosie asked.

  ‘That’s the easy bit,’ Queen Mae said, brightening up. ‘You just have to find as many people as possible who knew that child – and find a way of making them remember her again.’

  ‘Right,’ Rosie murmured, struggling not to frown. She didn’t want to disappoint Queen Mae but, secretly, she didn’t think that bit sounded very easy at all.

  It was after nine o’clock when Rosie woke up the following morning, and her mother was already downstairs in the kitchen making breakfast. By the smell of it, she was cooking bacon, which must mean she was in a good mood. Her mother hardly ever bothered to make a cooked breakfast for them.

  After Rosie had finished her bacon roll and got herself washed and dressed, she pottered about in her room for a while, tidying up and trying not to think about Snowdrop. At eleven o’clock she went downstairs and told her mother she was going for a walk up on the moor.

  ‘I’ll come with you, if you like,’ her mum offered. ‘Keep you company.’

  But for once, that wasn’t what Rosie wanted. ‘It’s OK, Mum. I’d rather go by myself,’ she said.

  Her mother looked surprised and a little hurt but there was nothing Rosie could do about that. She had to make contact with the white dove – and she couldn’t do that if her mum was around.

  She walked up on to the moor and kept heading towards the forest, not really sure what she was going to do when she got there. When she reached the tree trunk where she had left the chocolate the day before, she sat down on it to wait. It was only half past eleven. Soon, she started to get a funny feeling inside, as if something magical was about to happen. Maybe the tree trunk would open up like a trapdoor, to reveal a secret passage or something, that would lead her into the centre of the forest. She tapped on top of the wood three times but nothing happened. She moved to sit on the ground so she could rest her back against the stump. The sun was very bright now and it hurt her eyes every time she stared up at the sky for any sign of a white bird. She closed her eyes for a while, beginning to feel sleepy as the heat got to her, then, as she opened her eyes to check her watch, she noticed a bird in the sky overhead. As it came closer, she saw that it was a white dove. Rosie stood up as it flew over her. It was carrying a small, white bundle in its beak, soaring high above the trees, heading towards the centre of the forest.

  Rosie felt excited. She left the tree stump and began to walk among the trees. The further in she walked, the darker it became. She called out, ‘Hello,’ a few times, feeling sure that the centre of the forest must be where the fairies lived, but all she heard was her own voice sounding spooky as it echoed back to her. The trees got closer and closer together and soon she couldn’t tell which way she was walking any more. All she could make out when she looked up at the forest roof was blackness. It was dark underfoot as well and when she tripped up on a massive tree root, she decided to turn back.

  And that was when she realized that she didn’t know which direction led out of the forest. She thought she knew at first, so she kept walking, but instead of finding her way back, she kept coming up against more and more closely packed trees. Soon she was feeling really scared. What if she never found her way out of the forest again? Her mother didn’t even know where she was. How was anyone ever going to find her?

  Just as she felt like bursting into tears, she came to a tiny clearing, in the middle of which was another tree trunk. And perched on this tree trunk, as though it were waiting for her, was the white dove!

  The bird’s beak was empty now and as soon as it saw her, it flew off the tree stump and started to fly between the trees ahead of her, landing on a branch every now and again to look back, as if to check Rosie was following. Rosie easily kept the dove in sight as it flew at just the right speed to make sure it didn’t lose her. She hurried after it, talking to it in the same way that Miss MacPhee talked to Angus, as if it could understand her perfectly even though it couldn’t speak. ‘. . . so you see, I really need to know who Snowdrop’s special child was if I’m going to help the fairies to save her. I won’t tell them because I know I’m not allowed to, but if you tell me, I might be able to help . . .’

  Suddenly she saw chinks of blue sky through the trees and then she was back at the forest edge, standing in the sunshine again.

  ‘Can you talk?’ she asked the bird, thinking that perhaps the fairies had worked their magic on it too, but the dove just continued to fly on ahead of her in the direction of the road. It sat waiting for her on top of the gate, flying off again as Rosie climbed over it. As Rosie started to cross the road towards Thistle Cottage, the dove started making loud cooing noises, flying wildly about her head, like a sheepdog trying to hustle a sheep that was heading in the wrong direction. It clearly wanted to lead her some place further.

  Rosie followed the dove as it soared ahead of her along the single-track road and stopped at another gate some way along from Thistle Cottage. Rosie looked over into the field and recognized in the distance the old graveyard down by the loch. Judging from the ruins, there had been a church there too, long ago.

  Rosie climbed over the gate and tramped across the grassy field to take a closer look. The graves were all facing the loch and they were all so old that none of them was tended any more. The white dove had settled on top of one of them. The bird didn’t move as Rosie crouched down and pushed the long grass away from the front of the headstone where it was perched. The stone was covered in moss and ivy on one side and most of the writing was difficult to make out but it was easy to read the name inscribed at the top: SARAH. Rosie could just make out enough of the other words to tell that the grave belonged to a child who had died when she was seven years old. There was a date – January 14th 1927 – and under the date were the names of Sarah’s parents, William and Anne McIver.

  The dove cocked its head downwards as if to draw her attention again to the name on the gravestone. Then it took off and went soaring away towards the loch.

  ‘Thank you!’ Rosie called out after it because she knew there could be only one reason why the dove had brought her here . . .

  Sarah McIver must be Snowdrop’s special child!

  Rosie decided that the first thing she had to do was visit Flora again and see if she had known Sarah McIver. She went straight away.

  Flora was sitting on the bench outside her cottage eating a bowl of lentil soup when Rosie walked down her driveway. Angus was crouched in the shade under the bench, eating what looked like a plate of kippers. Rosie reckoned that Miss MacPhee probably spent more time planning Angus’s menu than she did her own.r />
  ‘Have you heard any more about Snowdrop?’ Flora asked, pausing between mouthfuls.

  ‘Just that she’s still really ill,’ Rosie replied, wishing she could explain everything but knowing that she musn’t. ‘Miss McPhee, I was wondering if you knew anyone called Sarah McIver when you were little. I found her grave just now in the old graveyard down by the loch and I worked out she’d be about the same age as you if she hadn’t died. She died when she was seven.’

  ‘Did she, indeed?’ Flora started to eat her soup again. ‘And how old is it that you think I am, then?’

  Rosie blushed. ‘Well, Sarah would have been eighty-two if she was still alive. I worked it out.’

  ‘And you think I must be about that old too, do you?’

  Rosie went even redder. ‘Well . . . maybe not quite as old as that—’ she began, but the old lady interrupted her.

  ‘I’ll be eighty years old next Saturday if you must know. What do you think of that, then?’

  ‘Next Saturday?’ Rosie was temporarily distracted. ‘Are you having a party? When my grandad was eighty, we had a huge party for him! All his friends and family came to it.’

  ‘Och, I haven’t got any family – and not much in the way of friends either,’ Flora said dismissively. ‘I’ll be having a quiet day here by myself with Angus. I expect I’ll buy myself a nice iced cake from the mobile shop when it visits on Friday.’ She blew on a spoonful of soup. ‘Now who was this person you wanted to know about? Sarah McIver, you say? I can’t say I remember anyone by that name when I was growing up, but I do remember an Annie McIver. She was in my class in school. I was just thinking about her as a matter of fact. Saw her in the paper.’ She picked up the newspaper that was lying on the bench and pointed to the section that listed Births, Deaths and Marriages. She jabbed her finger at an announcement in the Deaths column.

  ‘Annie McIver,’ Rosie read out loud. She looked at the date given. It was three days ago. The paragraph said that Annie McIver, aged seventy-nine, originally from Shee Village on the Isle of Skye, had died peacefully in her sleep in a nursing home in Glasgow.

  Rosie frowned. Three days ago coincided with the fairy party when Snowdrop had first become unwell. Was Annie a relative of Sarah’s? Had she been the one remembering her for all these years?

  ‘Miss MacPhee, could Sarah have been Annie’s sister?’ Rosie asked. ‘Were Annie’s parents called William and Anne, do you remember?’

  Flora shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, my dear. I really can’t remember that.’

  If Sarah had been Annie’s sister, and her only one, then it made sense that, with Annie gone, there would be nobody left who remembered Sarah. After all, she had died seventy-five years ago, hadn’t she? It was unlikely that anyone other than close family would still be thinking about someone after all that time. But some of the other old people from the village must have known her too, once upon a time. Some of them must have played with her as children.

  ‘Could you take me to see some of the other old people who live here?’ Rosie asked. ‘I’d really like to ask them if they knew Sarah.’

  Flora frowned. ‘I’ve no cause to be visiting any folk round here, thank you very much. They’ve all got their own lives now, with children, most of them, and grandchildren too. I’ve nothing to say to any of them any more.’

  Rosie was only half listening. An idea about how to help Snowdrop had come to her while Flora was talking. ‘Why don’t you have a birthday party next week and invite all the other old people in the village? You could hire out the village hall. Mum asked about it because she was thinking she might have an exhibition of her paintings there one evening. It’s owned by the church and Mum found out that they let people have it for free if they can’t afford to pay anything.’

  Miss MacPhee had a pink spot on each cheek now. She had stopped eating her soup. ‘I am not a charity case, Rosie Macleod!’ she snapped. ‘And if I wanted a party– which I don’t – I’d organize it myself. Now, I think you’d better be getting back to your mother. I’m sure she must be wondering where you are.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Rosie began in a small voice. ‘I didn’t mean . . .’

  But Flora was already standing up and making a shooing motion at her.

  Rosie wished she could have told her about Snowdrop and the real reason she wanted to get all the old people in the village together again. She supposed she could always organize a birthday party for Flora in any case, without the old lady knowing, and tell everyone it was going to be a surprise party like the one they’d had for her grandad. Somehow, Rosie didn’t think Flora would be as pleased as her grandad had been, but still . . . time was running out. And Rosie couldn’t think of any other way to help Snowdrop.

  It turned out that the most helpful person, once she’d told him her plan, was Cammie. She couldn’t tell Cammie about Sarah McIver but she could tell him that she knew who Snowdrop’s child had been and that, although Flora couldn’t remember her, there was a chance that if they got all the old people in the village together then someone would. And Cammie agreed that the best way to get a whole lot of people together at once was to throw a party.

  Cammie liked the idea of making it a surprise party for Flora’s birthday. ‘She’ll go mental when she finds out,’ he grinned, as if that was going to make it all the more enjoyable.

  ‘I hope she’s not too angry,’ Rosie said, frowning. ‘Though as long as we get everyone together, that’s the important thing for Snowdrop.’

  ‘I shouldn’t worry. I bet old grumpy drawers won’t even come,’ Cammie said.

  Rosie giggled. ‘She’d kill you if she heard you call her that!’

  ‘Och, she’d have to catch me first and you can’t catch a MacPherson if he’s a mind not to be caught!’ Cammie did a little jig as if to show off how nimble-footed he was. ‘I can deliver the invitations if you like. I’ll get all my brothers to help.’

  ‘How many brothers have you got?’ Rosie asked.

  ‘Nine that I know of.’ He started to count them on his fingers. ‘Calum, Willie, Big Dougal, Jimmy, Murdo, Ewan, Fraser, Gordon and Wee Dougal. And there are many more MacPhersons than that. I’ve thirty-two cousins . . .’ He started to count on his fingers again. ‘Hamish, Andrew, Stuart—’

  ‘I’m glad you’re such a big family,’ Rosie interrupted him, before he could list them all. ‘Because we’ll need lots of help getting the invitations delivered before Saturday. I can make them but you’ll need to see they get put in the right letter boxes. Will you be able to do that?’

  ‘Of course. We’ll sprinkle some fairy dust on them too if you like, just to make sure people are in the mood for a party when they open them up. There’s a few folk who might not go otherwise. Old Flora isn’t exactly the most popular person hereabouts.’

  ‘Don’t people like her, then?’ Rosie asked, surprised.

  ‘They think she’s a bit eccentric, that’s all,’ Cammie said, ‘the way she hardly ever leaves her house and never speaks to anyone save the English foreigners like you who rent out Thistle Cottage.’

  ‘I’m not an English foreigner!’ Rosie said crossly. ‘My mum’s Scottish and my dad is half-Scottish, so I’m nearly all Scottish even though I was born in England.’

  ‘Sorry! Sorry!’ Cammie grinned. ‘I just keep thinking of you as foreign because of that funny English way you speak, that’s all. Never mind. I dare say, you’ll start speaking normally when you’ve lived here a while longer.’

  ‘Stop being horrible!’ Rosie snapped.

  ‘You’re the one who’s horrible,’ Cammie said, looking a bit cross himself as he flew over to inspect the top shelf in the alcove where he had previously been living. ‘Turning me out of my home and leaving me with no place to stay!’

  ‘Can’t you find another cottage?’ Rosie asked.

  Cammie scowled. ‘Aye, but it wouldn’t be as cosy as the place I’ve got here. I don’t suppose you’ve looked behind those books on the top shelf, have you?’

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bsp; Rosie shook her head. ‘Why?’ she asked. ‘What’s there?’

  ‘My home, that’s what. I thought you were going to leave again after the summer so I just left everything there. You can take a peek if you like.’

  Rosie dragged her bedroom chair over to the shelved alcove and stood on it. Now that she could reach the shelf Cammie was talking about, she pulled out a few of the books and found that the shelf behind them went back a surprisingly long way. And hidden behind the row of dusty books was a doll-sized room, just big enough to house a wee man. At one end of the shelf was a soft bed made of dry, springy moss, with a white handkerchief spread over it to make a cover. Next to the bed was a toadstool table with a smaller toadstool seat next to it. Hanging on the wall above the table was a miniature portrait of a wee man dancing in full Highland dress, which Cammie proudly explained was a picture of him doing the Highland fling. At the other end of the shelf from the bed there was a pink Barbie doll’s wardrobe and a chest of drawers made out of matchboxes.

  ‘I picked that up at a jumble sale,’ Cammie told her, pointing at the wardrobe proudly. ‘It’s bonnie, don’t you think?’

  Rosie looked at him. ‘Cammie . . . ’ She paused. ‘Listen, I don’t mind if you want to move back in here. My mum never looks behind those books so she’d never find out.’

  ‘Really?’ Cammie looked delighted.

  Rosie nodded.

  ‘Well . . .’ Cammie suddenly changed his grin to a thoughtful frown, like he at least wanted to go through the motions of carefully considering Rosie’s offer. ‘I suppose it might suit me, so long as you promise not to peek at me when I’m getting undressed or anything like that.’

  ‘Of course I wouldn’t!’ Rosie protested.

  ‘And as long as you don’t snore. I can’t abide that when I’m trying to get to sleep.’